


Kiss Peony

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Canon ages, Control Issues, Crossdressing, Degradation, Fantasizing, Guilt Kink, Hair-pulling, Height difference, High Heels, M/M, MILD pregnancy kink, Mild Daddy Kink, Painplay, Panties, Panties Kink, Public Sex, Rimming, Shame kink, Size Difference, Size Kink, Unreliable Narrator, age kink, degradation kink, domination kink, mild voyeurism kink, mild watersports kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Victor makes a request for a particular fantasy.
Relationships: Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Kiss Peony

**Author's Note:**

> Piers/Victor is like my bread and butter this year for content, but like...it's one of the few things that makes me happy in 2020, and I don't get to eat unless I make the content myself. I gotta provide my own IV drip of content...no Piers/Victor or Victor content otherwise...
> 
> This also isn't a "true" unreliable narrator situation, but I decided to keep the tag honestly since there's "a lot" going on in that vein in this. Please consider warnings as well, and if you are sensitive to words such as "whore," please consider that as well.

“Can you hurry it up, Victor?”

It’s brusque, overly so if the faint sounds of shuffling behind him are any indication—shoes scuffling sheepishly on tiled flooring and fabric ruffling lightly as small, slender hands fumble to settle lightly upon his hips, sweaty palms warm and sticky against his cool skin.

Piers doesn’t mean to be brisk—Victor could be rather sensitive at times, and he isn’t truly angry with him—but still, he think he’s rather justified in his request.

Sex in a public restroom isn’t something that they could simply meander through, and he doesn’t particularly want them to be found as they are now, motions unmistakable as anything but provocative and bodies pressed too closely together, verging to and passing into the realm of the inappropriately sexual rather than the acceptably platonic.

No excuse would suffice—no hand-wringing, no half-fumbling words, too quick and too nervous to be believable, and no action, nothing short of a substantial bribe and even then most would adhere to their morals rather than to the law of coin.

He doesn’t particularly want to go to prison. He knows damn well what would happen to him if someone were to stumble upon them now.

A ruined and unsalvageable career—illicit relationships among the famous are only acceptable, overlooked rather, for the barely or nearly legal, for idealistic sixteen-year-old girls with forged licenses and not twelve-year-old boys whose voices haven’t even cracked yet—a long prison sentence, and most likely, a beating from Leon.

Even with their longstanding friendship, that is a certainty. Piers knows him well enough to understand his inclinations, his overprotectiveness. He wouldn’t allow anything or anyone to harm his little protégé, his brother’s beloved best friend.

He doesn’t plan to hurt Victor, not without his consent anyhow, but he doesn’t think Leon would accept that particular plea if they were ever to be found out.

Leon isn’t even particularly far away from them, a roughly forty-five-minute walk from where they are now and currently holed up in his office for lunch.

Though, even in a hypothetical scenario, he isn’t sure what they would do with Victor. Mandated therapy perhaps? It isn’t something he thinks about too often, not for a lack of care or for a lack of concern but simply because he doesn’t want to. He knows what he himself—he and Victor rather—would lose if they were to be found.

It’s too discomforting to think about, and in that illicitness, there is a peculiar allure to everything, a certain attractiveness eroding at common sense and pushing him forward toward action.

He doesn’t want to think about it, and yet, he finds his mind drifting to it anyhow.

He hadn’t been coerced—what would Victor even use as blackmail?—and neither had Victor, not for this occasion anyhow. He couldn’t call it, their relationship, something completely devoid of perversity. He knows what the general opinion on their relationship would be after all—boy groomed and trust abused.

Perhaps they’re right, but he doesn’t particularly mind. Victor’s too cute for that, too earnest and too sincere in his affections—the quintessential ingénue or Lo given masculine, boyish form—and in his requests: all stuttering, all childishly, endearingly nervous, and nearly all needing to be coaxed out, requests ranging from the benign, hand-holding and nightly cuddles, to the lewd, wet, openmouthed kisses and sloppily given blowjobs.

He doesn’t think that there’s anything wrong in it, in affection willingly given and affection willingly returned, and Victor had been the one to approach him first anyway, confession soft and face flushed on a Tuesday evening some ten months ago.

Should he have declined then? Perhaps, but he doesn’t think the specifics particularly matter, not in the current moment. There isn’t room for thought, for languidness and for hesitation.

Moreover, it’s uncomfortable to stay as they are now—he leaning forward, weight bearing down on the thin high heels of his stilettos and with elbows resting on the porcelain toilet tank, the scent of piss wafting upward from the bowl and drifting around them alongside the faint hum of the park outside, barking and chatter intermingled with the pattering of joggers.

Piers shifts again, heels clicking lightly on the floor and careful as to avoid stepping upon their bags. “This is what you wanted, right? Don’t wanna rush you, but we don’t have time to wait.”

It’s impatient, brisk and repetitive as the statement before, but he couldn’t quite help himself, agitated as he is, a consequence of both the occasion and his own state of dress—attire more fit for a whore, a cheap prostitute, than for he himself.

Too airy, ruffled skirt too short for the length of his legs, white panties visible from underneath the pink, raising cotton, and dark silk pantyhose too thin; too revealing, white blouse unbuttoned halfway to bare a loose-fitting lace bra; and too garish, fabrics brightly hued and colors more fit for a summer afternoon spent picnicking than for sex in one of Wyndon’s worser-kept restrooms.

Certainly, it’s fitting for everything, outfit simply another part of Victor’s request, and he _is_ a whore—no one else would be this eager, cock already erect and straining against both silk and cotton, about letting a child fuck them in a cramped bathroom stall—but still, it isn’t quite to his personal tastes even if he had gone along with it.

Though, whatever his own opinion may be on the matter, it doesn’t quite stop him from shuddering, body leaning forward further and legs spreading with heels clicking on the tiles, as Victor’s fingers lift the fabric of his skirt and then slide into the hem of panties, smooth fabric sliding slightly downward before a mouth presses against his opening, slim tongue soon slipping inward to lick at his insides and motion drawing a low noise.

It’s wet, more spit than skill and more enthusiasm than restraint, and not particularly good when compared to some of his past hookups, but Piers finds himself pushing back against Victor’s mouth anyway in an attempt to force his tongue deeper, stall clattering as Victor’s back bangs into the door and noise loud in the empty restroom.

They don’t have much space to work with—the accessibility stall hadn’t been an option, not when everyone checks it first upon entry—but he doesn’t mind. He prefers the near-claustrophobia really: bodies forced closer together, nails digging into his hip before quickly trailing upward to tug roughly at his loose hair, drawing a noise, pained moans intermingling with the click of heels, and another bang of the stall door.

Piers almost pushes back once more until he hears a heavy thud, not quite distant yet not entirely close yet wholly distinct. He knows the cause naturally—it is a public restroom after all, and he isn’t naive enough to think that they wouldn’t have any potential voyeurs for the occasion—but much like with the cramped stall, he doesn’t mind it. Rather, he welcomes it, the opening of the restroom entrance door.

What fun, thrill, would there be if they fucked without an audience, even a brief one?

But still, he expects Victor to still, pause in his actions until they’re once again alone. Despite everything being at Victor’s request, Piers also understands his inclinations—endearingly antsy and charming in his fluster, warranted or otherwise.

Thus, it surprises him when he feels Victor tug once more at his hair, motion much rougher than the last and provoking a strangled whine, sound muffled as he bites down on his lower lip, teeth nearly drawing blood.

It’s cheeky—he almost thinks it’s in response to his earlier words—but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t stop Victor. How could he? He couldn’t mouth anything to him, not with their current position, nor could he whisper to him, not without undoubtedly revealing their activities. He could motion to him certainly but that train of thought carries its own dilemmas—an accidental bump of his elbow against the wall or perhaps something else but all too likely to draw a concerned knock on the door.

He doesn’t want to explain. His voice is too distinctive for that, and Victor’s is recognizable enough despite its wispiness, a consequence of his increasing number of public appearances.

But perhaps most importantly, he doesn’t particularly _want_ to, not when he feels Victor’s other hand move to spread him further, thin fingers slipping into his ass with a small wet pop, overly loud to his own ears but nearly inaudible outside of their stall, as his tongue delves in further, still eager.

It is against his better judgement—he knows the consequences of discovery—but he also isn’t a stranger to public sex and its nuances, taboo and want meshing with and overcoming sense and reason. If anything, he finds himself growing harder at the idea of discovery, at the possibility of a scandal.

If they were discovered, how would they be found? As they are now? Victor’s mouth, lips pink and small pretty as flower petals, pressing against his ass with tongue still moving, as he writhes, voice hoarse and moaning wantonly?

Or would it be further along? Victor fucking him with an all-too-small cock—not quite large enough yet for his tastes and pleasure partially made up by the shame of it—as he eagerly thrusts back, skirt swaying with each motion and voice noisy, whining loudly to be bred like a bitch, like a cockwhore?

Or further still, would he be fucking himself on Victor’s cock, bouncing eagerly and lips meeting, kisses sloppy and more teeth and spit and tongue than skill and interspersed with vulgarity, moans for daddy to hurry up and cum inside.

Hell, he wouldn’t particularly mind if it _isn’t_ cum. Victor could use him as urinal—piss inside him—if he so wishes, and he wouldn’t complain. He only wants to be filled up, warm but not quite sated in terms of lust and still riding him even as urine drips from his used, stretched asshole.

It's whorish, objectively so, but he doesn't particularly mind, not with how it makes him feel, warmth pooling in stomach and skin flushing further.

Really, he almost wishes he had a cunt for Victor to fuck instead, for him to cum in, and a womb to impregnate.

He shivers then, a consequence of both his thoughts and the light pressure upon his cock, Victor’s fingers having withdrawn from his ass and moved to settle upon the stained silk, digits gently massaging and nails occasionally pinching at the sensitive, clothed flesh, motions still clumsy despite months of practice.

He doesn’t quite have the frame for pregnancy, body too thin and hips too narrow, but still, he finds his heart quickening at the thought anyhow—at the idea of his stomach swelling, mobility impaired, and at the idea of everything still continuing even as he is.

He doesn’t think Victor, as curious as he is and as infatuated as he is, would be adverse to fucking him then, small cock thrusting into his pussy and body leaning over a swollen belly, mouth pressing kisses onto the stretched, sweating flesh and hands eagerly roaming to grope at every inch of skin.

It’s an impossible scenario of course—he understands that—but that doesn’t stop the groan, breathy and near-inaudible, that leaves his mouth. He only feels himself leaking further, pre-cum pooling against overly tight fabric and messily spread further by Victor’s hand and pleasure aided by the sounds outside their stall, the distinctive tapping of women’s heels against bathroom tile and the sound of a nearby stall door closing, lock soon leisurely clicking into place.

He couldn’t quite place the face to the action—how could he? They’re strangers in public bathroom—but he could, at the very least, imagine the look of disgust well enough, the ensuing scream, and the scramble for the door—news articles soon appearing after to gossip and to condemn, each racing to make the most scandalous, the most striking headline.

That’s realistic enough, uncomfortably, paradoxically pleasantly so, and expected enough, something that could fuel his fantasies well enough.

Naturally, there is also a shame in it, at the idea of letting—wanting—someone smaller, someone half of his age, treat him like this, but he only finds himself growing harder with each passing thought, each fantasy and each sound.

Certainly, he could easily flip their positions, pin him to the wall and fuck him into an incoherent, begging mess—Victor is a child after all, smaller than himself and smaller in stature than his peers even, and not particularly demanding when it comes to the specifics of their activities—but he doesn’t.

That particular scenario isn’t quite as satisfying as his fantasies or even their current reality.

Disgusting perhaps, but he knows himself well enough.

Furthermore, it isn’t like sexual deviancy isn’t already expected of him. He already knows of the rumors surrounding him—sexual deviancy excused, expected, by his occupation and by his appearance—though he doesn’t think most would assume delinquency of this particular breed.

He feels another pull on his hair, quick and painful and jerking his head slightly backwards, before a hand slips into the front of panties, fingers gripping tightly around his cock but not quite wrapping entirely around the girth and tugging unevenly.

Despite his own pleasure, body trembling and soft panting stifled by biting his lip, it isn’t the most comfortable of positions. His feet are sore, heels uncomfortable, his cock hard and soaking his panties and Victor’s hand, and his hair dirty, sweaty and frayed ends wet with toilet water.

Another tug on his hair, head jerking backward once more and movement drawing a low, faint groan, and he feels Victor’s tongue withdraw, teeth grazing the skin lightly upon departure and motion accompanied by fingers sliding up his cock, forefinger rubbing at his leaking slit.

He shouldn’t be excited as he is when he hears the distinctive sound of a belt buckle carefully being undone, zipper and pants’ buttons shortly following suit, but he is, bare ass soon rutting back and meeting Victor’s clothed bulge in a request to hurry.

Even when he feels Victor’s hand tighten once more on his cock in response, nail pressing lightly into his cock’s slit, he’s eager, body still rutting backward, agitation only heightening when he feels the hand in his hair leave and his ass meet a now bare cock.

Face flushing at the thought, he almost wants to beg, to urge Victor to hurry up and fuck him like a whore deserves, but he doesn’t. Despite his own excitement, he isn’t stupid.

He isn’t stupid enough to risk, to guarantee rather, discovery in such an obvious manner not when he could still hear someone else in the other stall, piss trickling nosily into toilet water and music faintly playing, a video most likely. Instead, he finds himself rubbing impatiently rubbing against Victor’s cock, pre-cum smearing onto his entrance and motion drawing a gasp from Victor.

Though, it isn’t quite enough when Victor enters him—too slow, too careful, and too considerate for his tastes—and he almost pushes back against Victor until he feels the grip on his cock tighten painfully once more, ensuing noise half-strangled in his mouth, and a hand settle on his hip, fingertips rubbing small circles into the hot, sweaty skin and calloused palm rough against the bone.

Physically, it isn’t enough—too small, too slow, and still too considerate—even when Victor begins moving, hand still tugging at his cock and thrusts uneven with denim rubbing against the back of his thighs, more consequences of inexperience and their difference in height, trickiness only aided further by his stilettos, than any intentional teasing.

Even when Victor’s cock meets his prostate, tip grinding roughly for a few moments before withdrawing for another shallow thrust, it isn’t enough.

But still, much like with before, he doesn’t complain. How could he? The angle isn’t right, and he doesn’t want to risk speaking—he doesn’t trust himself to—or motioning to Victor.

Though, despite his own personal annoyances—more impatience than any true complaint—he doesn’t hate it, doesn’t loathe Victor or his actions. He wouldn’t be letting Victor fuck him otherwise. Instead, he only wants _more_ , something akin to their more personal nights, more hurried, hands fumbling and limbs tangling in sheets, and much louder than their current occasion.

More begging, more screaming, and more motion, cock thrusting harshly in-between eager lips, cum spilled onto a wet tongue and soon swallowed down a willing throat, or into a stretched and presented ass, legs wrapped around a thin waist and hands grasping at dirty sheets.

Certainly, there are similarities, but it isn’t quite the same. It _couldn’t_ be the same, not if they wished to keep their anonymity.

Nevertheless, he finds another moan leave his throat, more breath than noise, when Victor once again pushes against his prostate, trimmed nails digging into his hip and pink, dirtied cotton swaying with the motion.

It isn’t quite the same, but still, it isn’t _bad_.

Victor’s too earnest for that, too sincere in his affections, and too considerate, trait both a virtue and a fault. Contradictory perhaps, but it isn’t something he could ponder on for long, not when he feels Victor’s cock push once again against his prostrate, thrusts increasing slightly in intensity and drawing another muffled noise from him.

When Victor cums, it’s a quiet affair—voice raspy, cock withdrawing, warm cum now dripping onto the floor below, and hand soon withdrawing from his panties—and a bit selfish. He hasn’t even cummed yet, cock still straining against his panties, but it isn’t something that he couldn’t rectify later, more of a minor annoyance than anything else.

That is how Piers feels anyhow until he feels Victor gently press his hand against the small of his back, urging him forward and onto the toilet.

Awkward, it’s entirely awkward when they finally settle again—he facing both the stall door and Victor and with Victor himself peering back. Faintly, he hears the sound of a stall door opening and the click of heels, sounds soon joined by the squeaking of a turning faucet and the rush of running water.

Nevertheless, he almost expects Victor to kneel then or perhaps use his hands. Victor, despite some of his more curious requests, isn’t particularly keen on risks.

Thus, there’s a certain thrill, sensation curling and tight in his stomach, when Victor hoists himself upward and onto his lap, denim jeans pulled downward around his knees and arms soon hooking loosely around his neck.

A quick peck against his mouth, small tongue flicking out to lick at his lips, before Piers feels Victor mumble a quiet “please,” intentions obvious by both his request and by the way his ass grinds downward, cock hardening once more and rubbing against his stomach with each motion.

It’s greedy, overly risky all things considering, but Piers doesn’t particularly mind, not with the way Victor looks at him, adoring and with cheeks flushing.

Even with consideration to his preferences—he would much prefer their positions to be flipped—he doesn’t mind, not enough to voice his complaints anyhow.

Odd and perhaps simply another of his deviancies, but he simply couldn’t decline him nor would he want to.

He couldn't.

Victor is too cute for that, too sincere and too earnest.

Innocent.

**Author's Note:**

> Protagonists with distorted views are the best I think...I think one should examine what Piers says VS how he acts. I like "layered" nsfw the best, and that gives insight into what's also going on and what's actually eating at Piers...a lot going there I think. I will say I did not write this with trans issues in mind though. Would be a bit of an "unfortunate implication" imo.
> 
> But still, after 9 to 10 months of attempts, I finally got my "Victor tops" fic...I prefer that to Victor bottoming in most cases, but I never get to use it in most cases in serious capacity.
> 
> And I guess depending on what you think about it, everyone also narrowly avoided the birthing kink and the "actual" piss kink because I couldn't fit it in in this one. I mean...I have Thoughts for the future, but it's dependent on my productivity.


End file.
